was an embrace long sought after by certain cleverly manipulative and sometimes blessed auto regurgitator salesmen from nearby Pokeena. You could hear a waistline snigger wretchedly with oakmeal before anybody got to work by 9:30 in the monday, monday, but after that hoo boy! even the electric pencil shavings were pretty loud.
By quitting time, the wobbly salesmen loaded serenely but miserably on a platform heel-eeummm-gummm unnnnloader desperately searching for the vaguest silhouette of something very very bright.
Every year around Talking Spumoni Day, the salesmen would all spew out dogma and eventually wish each other GINSLE MTUMBE right down to their forebears. And every year, three lucky effrimzimblitzds (as they were called) were chosen by Random Sample to join the ranks of discarded gumboots. Lucky for them, they never knew what hit ‘em. But everybody wondered...
Eric Beeslow and Penkie-Wenkie-Enkie were having lunch at Entrail’s House of Lubricant when the topic turned to Talking Spumoni Day and the Random Sample. Let’s listen in:
“You know Penkie-Wenkie-Enkie, somebody’s bound to be chosen and it sure feels like it’s gonna be me this year, sure as my name is Eric Beeslow. Wouldja pass me the Chunky Spread©?”
“Oh, be quiet Eric,” Penkie-Wenkie-enkied, “Every year we have this same conversation. You’d think by now either you would have been chosen or at least nominated. How many times do you wanna die anyway?”
A commotion in the restaurant broke off any more conversation. Three agitated embroiderers were trying to sew some green beans together and then a group of Oriental men over in the corner stood on their chairs and bowed repeatedly to each other exclaiming “Thank You” “Thank You” over and over and over. The Maitre ‘D’ spontaneously combusted in front of everybody and left behind only a tiny heap of smouldering blue ashes when all a suddnely, all the food asploded into kisses and one man, a Mister Hobarth Empeñada I believe, began crying real tears when his grapefruit wouldn’t shut up.